Unorthodox and Unhinged

Tales of a Manic Christian


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Rebecca Has Two Mommies

Yes, this is a ripoff of the 1989 classic “Heather Has Two Mommies” — but in title only not in plot.

“Rebecca Has Two Mommies” is a maternal tale not of partnership but of parallel universes.

And it’s the story of a child – caught in between – who had no choice in the matter.

Many of my U&U followers have read the story of Rebecca’s return to my life, in one or more of these posts:

Scarlet Letter, No More,

A Room Full of Mothers,

The “Nua” Normal.

I have shouted this story from the rooftops every way I know how both here and in print and on the Story District stage.

For forty-five years out of fear, out of shame, I locked Rebecca away. I was seventeen years-old and kicked out of my Roman Catholic household, the Hester Prynne of my high school. My sin was so mortal, it was dangerous even to speak of it.

My father’s medical practice would be ruined. So Father Kelso, the parish priest (I believe), with a wink and a nod, assured my parents I could be sent to some discrete location. To spare them the scandal. Some Magdalen Laundry. Some home for unwed mothers.

That’s what happened to knocked-up pregnant teenage girls in 1972.

But William and I forged a different path – disowned and on our own.

The Supreme Court’s Roe v. Wade decision was about to come down. But I never struggled with my choice. It was a no-brainer. It simply did not occur to me to “terminate” her or to vacuum her out through a tube. (While I totally understand and support the difficult choices that other women make.)

She was a life inside me. She made me throw up in the mornings. She kicked my insides. She gave me stretch marks. For nine months, occupying my every crevice, she was my most intimate companion. It was just the two of us in the delivery room the day that she was born. No other family members were there.

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A child, I gave birth to a child I was unable to keep. The social worker from Pierce Warwick collected her later that week. And handed her over to her older, more stable, more educated, more mature, the so much more ready adoptive mom and dad.

Two people for whom I will be forever grateful.

But before I could let her go, I had to fill out the form. Her birth certificate lay on my hospital tray table. My hand shaking, I filled in the blanks.

Baby Name: Elizabeth Catherine

Name of Mother: Joan Louise Peacock (Me, that’s me.)

Signature of Mother: J o a n________ (Me, that’s me.)

A sealed adoption, this form was locked up tight in a D.C. courthouse for 45 years. In fact, its locked there still.

And for a year and a half now, Rebecca and I have gotten to know one another. We’ve grown close. It’s really quite impossible to imagine my life without her.

I am not her parent. I am Joani. I am bio-mom. But after 18 months, bio has become a cumbersome distinction.

Rebecca says that people have fought for a long time to have two moms. So she reserves the right to call both the mother who raised her and the mother who gave her birth – simply mom.

Rebecca has taught me much about the realities of the adopted life. An adopted child is the only person in adoption who has no choice in the matter.

Adoptees live in an in between world. They are grateful for their adoptive parents and genuinely love the families they grow up in. Simultaneously, they yearn to know where they came from — not just for information but for connection. The hope of reunion. It’s a both/and aspiration.

But many adoptees grow up in an either/or world. DNA does not matter anymore. Only love does, so the adoptee is told. So whatever came before does not matter. In fact, it’s something you shouldn’t talk about or ask about. Because after all, we’re your real family.

And of course, they are. Of course, that is true.

But an adoptee’s life does not begin at adoption. It begins at birth.

Its not just a story of joy, but of grief and loss. Adoption is often born of trauma.

And the stories of the birth moms are written out of the story — whatever their story may be.

Rebecca’s birth certificate, her certificate of live birth has her adoptive mother’s name where mine used to be.

I was so startled. Already a thing of shame, I was erased, irrelevant, like a Handmaid to a Commander’s wife in the Margaret Atwood tale.

Made invisible.

I am one of untold numbers of silent 1970’s birth moms of the “Baby Scoop Era.”

Since I have told my Rebecca story in print, in the pulpit, on stage a swarm of people have come up to me to share their own. That’s my story too. I was adopted. I adopted a child. I adopted a baby from a teenage mother.

But not a single woman  has told me that they did what I did. Not a single one.

Because, I believe, even though it is 2018, the shame resonates still.

The birth mom is a sinner. The adoptive mom is a savior.

It is the ultimate and unforgivable sin for a woman to give up a child. You abandoned her, didn’t you?

And so people like me are written out of the story. And because of the shame, we keep writing ourselves out of the story, as well.

But not anymore. No longer hiding, I refuse to be invisible.

And  I want to help other birth mothers like me to come out, as well.

So I am determined to write this story — a truer story.

And guess what it’s called?

Rebecca Has Two Moms.

Of course.

(And stay tuned for a guest post from Rebecca!)

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“Knock the Unicorn Off the Cloud”

From Rebecca, my new found firstborn daughter, in her own words:

What happens when the people that you MOST want to talk about your life and adoption with are also the people who might be the most confused and hurt by what you have to say? What do you do when your loaded, intense and central-to-life story is also someone else’s….but from a completely different perspective? How do you handle the unremembered (but very much present) pain of separation when most people expect you to just be “fine and grateful”? How do you reunite with people who are all at once your closest relatives and at the same time complete strangers?

I dont know the answers to any of these questions. But I am trying to figure it out. By living it.

In times of great trauma (like war) children get torn asunder from their parents and their families. Sometimes, children are sent to live with other people to keep them safe from battle torn areas. Families in these situations perhaps spend years being apart, not knowing about the wellbeing of those they are separated from. When these families reunite, it is a clear cut story of wonderful reunification and a return to familial wholeness.

When families are apart because of adoption, there is an expectation that loss and separation are not felt in the same way as the war torn family. The original trauma that caused the need for adoption is not acknowledged, and the loss for both parents and child is not recognized. Somehow, this trauma which caused a need for separation and the subsequent loss and pain is not seen as valid or even present. If it is present, then something must be wrong that has absolutely nothing to do with being adopted or having relinquished a child. These feelings should all be washed away with a pervading feeling of being “grateful”, “making the ultimate sacrifice”, “moving on” and “growing in someone’s heart, not their belly”. While these sentiments are likely well intended, and meant to put adoption in its most positive light, it also has a dismissive quality that does not allow for the true complexity that is relinquishment, adoption and reunion.

Just because my name was changed on a birth certificate, and because I was handed to a childless couple who wanted nothing but a child of their own at 1 month old does not mean I did not experience a loss. A lifetime of wondering, and trying to interpret myself through a mirror that did not properly reflect my unique self as inherited by DNA set me up for perhaps never being able to fully be a part of any family. I always feared I would never have a complete sense of self, and never fully belong. Anywhere.

With one family I share a history, with the other DNA. I never knew until reunion how important and influential DNA is. Raised by linear thinkers, this circuitous brain of mine often felt improperly wired at best and damaged at its worst. My extroverted, overly expressive and impulsive self was reflected back to me as “overbearing”, “selfish” and “unable to be alone”. A good head taller than my adoptive mother, I felt “huge” and “amazon” and like an abnormal ogre. I remember a teacher telling me that my terrible posture was caused by “lack of confidence” and “laziness”. I felt misunderstood, and often inadequate. When I could not read maps and cried over simple math problems, no matter how hard I tried, it was just another proof that I “did not work to potential” (a regular quote on the math and science portions of my report cards). My love of all things religion and religious cult made me appear “flaky”, “gullible” and even “unstable” outside of my true genetic context. Imagine my shock and surprise when I found that these traits of mine that I was trying to find environmental causation for were actually already programmed into me. Out of my control. Out of my adoptive parents’ control. Heck, out of my natural family’s control. The years I spent over analyzing what should have just been assumptions….now, that is loss.

Don’t get me wrong. Not one ounce of me wishes that my life was any other way. I would not have the three children I have now and the life that I love without my adoption. But this does not make adoption a gift to me. It does not make it like a unicorn riding on a cloud. unicorn pillow i poop magicIt is real, complex, multi-layered and I will likely be trying to make heads and tails of it for the rest of my life. Adoption, my adoption, JUST IS. It is not all good, it is not all bad. It is what it is. And it sure is fun to reunite. It is exhilarating to finally see context for my features, my temperament and way of thinking. I would take gaining new siblings as an adult again and again, even with the conflicting life of an adoptee. This adventure of reunion could never have happened without the event that triggered my needing a reunion.

So, I will not try to reflect too much on what could have/should have/would have been. That ship has sailed. I am just going to enjoy it. Knock the unicorn off that cloud. I much prefer it here in the muck and depth of reality. And I am happy that what I found when I finally met my natural family was an openness and willingness to understand this paradox. The 44 year elephant in the room has finally materialized.

I realize now that placing the inflection of a question at the end of a statement an inherited trait…..my sister, biomom and I all do it….although I do it with definitively more alto style diaphragm support (thanks theater, voice training and social smoking!). So, I will refrain from making statements that don’t have room for an open ended question at the end. And most profoundly, I am grateful to finally know my family so I can get the rest of the story.

NOTE from Joani:  Stay tuned for more U&U guest posts on our shared story of reunion.

Thanks be to God.